


The Running Man

by frogfarm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: Bodyswap, Dubious Consent, Genderswap, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-21
Updated: 2006-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remix AU genderswap angst. Fucking hostile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Running Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dormant Magics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/910500) by [nwhepcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat). 



> Post-Chosen angst-AU from [](http://nwhepcat.livejournal.com/profile)[**nwhepcat**](http://nwhepcat.livejournal.com/)'s ["Dormant Magics"](http://www.echonyc.com/~stax/Buffy/nwhepcat/dormantmagics.html). Blame [](http://somercet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://somercet.livejournal.com/)**somercet** for reminding me it existed and how cool hot it is, and for dialogue that came through the clinch once again.

 

He'll never know whose idea it was first to leave it all behind: Cleveland, everything and everyone in one fell swoop. The Hand's secondary effects appeared to have run their course after more than a few tense moments involving love spells, and the little things they'd adjusted to, or it feels like. But neither of them can take the whispers and stares, the endless sympathizing and shying away. Not like he's letting go anything of real value -- hasn't had time to rebuild a comic collection, and Faith still gets by with enough clothes to fit in one bag. Easier than he'd imagined, too, as if they read each other's minds; out on patrol one night and never came back, headed south for the freeway without a backward glance or word spoken.

The truck is their home for a few weeks, huddled together for warmth, with Xander wondering how she can sleep at all. Cops are an automatic wiggins thanks to his fugitive status, and he actually finds himself praying for supernatural attacks to work off nervous energy, terrified of inadvertently crushing some random mugger to jelly. All the physical attributes are there -- strength, toughness -- but apparently the Slayer heritage isn't a package deal, her reflexes and skills backed up solely by his inadequate human muscle. He can't be sure if she's telling the truth about not having any wacky prophetic dreams, but pushing is the last thing on his mind. They break down and hit the cheapest motel after too many close calls with the _polizei_ , and he can see her struggle to hide the disgust, hating it for the memories it provokes, unable not to care. She keeps his eye clean with remarkable efficiency, never has to be told twice, but grows increasingly apathetic to anything more than basic hygiene; refusing to shave, hair curling toward his (her) shoulders.

The cash stash runs dry faster than anticipated despite their frugality, but when they raid a demon bar in Lancaster its customers scatter with satisfying speed, and if Faith looks at him funny when he smashes open the register to empty its contents, he doesn't care. Her crossbow eye is deadly accurate even without a mate, but her brass knuckles and body armor only put him marginally at ease every time they wade into battle, and he holds her bruised and aching body close at night.

He never suggests they go back. Every night, he thinks it.

* * *

She doesn't realize how much the world has shrunk, their horizons contracted, until one day in a convenience store when she smiles at the woman behind the counter. Such a stupid thing; isn't even that hot, but with an infectious laugh, obviously smitten with this hirsute stranger's rugged good looks, and who can blame a girl for flirting back?

The answer is waiting when she comes out, sees herself sitting in the truck staring back at her, blank faced and fist clenched. She's boiling over with things to say all the way back, concentrates on driving safe, but when they get inside and the door slams her words all go up in smoke. High school crap she never went through, never wanted to, though it might have been good practice. Then again, maybe _I'm not leavin' you, dumbass_ wasn't the best diplomacy.

Things escalate despite their best efforts, trying to keep the volume down for their own sanity if not to avoid unwanted visitors, but nothing prepares her for her own body pinning her against the wall, throwing her onto the bed, climbing on top of her; for the chill in her skin, seeing that much hate in her own face staring down. She lashes out, the striking edge of her hand going instantly numb, along with much of her forearm; barely sees her face (Xander's) twist away in pain as she scrambles up for the door, halfway there when a dead voice stops her cold.

"Leave and I won't be here when you come back. _Ever_."

She stands there imprisoned, between a broken air conditioner and the bed, until her face, already bruising, appears and leads her, crying uncontrollably, back to the bed; lays there while her face floats in stinging pools above, hissing filth in her ears, torturing her (his own) cock and balls for agonizing hours, insinuating finger up her ass as he finally jerks her to sobbing completion. He very nearly gets out the door, horror on his (her) face, and yet there's no way he can with her arms thrown around him, pitiful human somehow restraining Slayer strength.

They don't speak again until the next morning, when she lands a knife between his fingers as he's reaching for the juice.

"Do that again? I will end you."

He nods, frozen, as her single eye stares him down.

"Pass the butter."

* * *

They crossed the Ohio river a month ago, entering Kentucky. He's managed to bullshit his way onto a construction crew, working under the table along with a handful of other illegals, for the most part able to keep his power under control and not cause undue damage to persons or property. The threat of a beer belly has vanished as Faith works out every day, pushing herself to the limits of his body. The sex is amazing; occasionally quiet, often brutal.

Today he's watching the team pour concrete into freshly dug foundation, thankful that the work will remain ground-based until next week. Overconfidence and a lack of superbalance led to him taking a tumble the first day, with two witnesses; unfortunately one was his supervisor, who had quite the insurance panic before seeing him unharmed, subsequently realizing that anyone who could walk away from that kind of fall was logically the first person to send up. Anya would have loved his business sense but Jerry's a decent guy, probably would have paid any hospital bills out of pocket, and Xander isn't so angry at the concept of feeling used. At least now he has something to contribute.

"Hey, Lehane!"

He nods as Jerry comes striding up, puffing a little. Guy really needs to quit smoking. "What's up?"

"Ya got a visitor. Do me a favor and take the rest of the day, huh?"

"You sure?" Faith visited a grand total of once on the job, the day he fell, and part of Xander's brain is trying desperately to figure out who's caught up with him. The rest is scanning his surroundings, wondering which way to run.

"We're ahead of schedule, no thanks to you." Jerry claps him on the shoulder, grinning to show he isn't mad. "Give the guys a chance to get some hours in. I'll clock ya out at five."

A faint prickle at the back of his neck, and he freezes at the sight of long red hair across the lot. Maybe the mojo-detection sense is something you have to develop. He doesn't try to escape, trudging across the dusty expanse as she stares him down, hard hat shielding his eyes from the glare; stopping mere feet away, self-consciously folding his arms over his ample chest. Her petulant frown is adorable as ever.

"You look good."

"You should see the rest of me." His lips twist in a sarcastic smile. "The other me, that is."

She doesn't smile back. "Want a ride?"

"It's only a couple blocks."

"I know." The hurt's starting to show, but he recognizes how she forces it back down. "I was just there."

"What, locator spell go wonky?" He instantly regrets it, not the words so much as the voice. She always was the hardest hit by all this. Not counting the directly affected, of course.

"Locator spell _and_ good old-fashioned detective hacking." She folds her own arms, mirroring his stubborn posture.

He lets her drive him back to their cramped efficiency, steals glances at her sitting on the couch while he puts omelettes together, refusing her offers of help. Good practice doing normal everyday stuff, keeps him from slipping up, breaking stuff he shouldn't. Apart from the doom and gloom expression, Willow looks damn good herself; hair longer than ever, freckles more prominent, and he's still not used to this tight, curling sensation of being aroused without a hard-on. Not to mention it's been years since he thought of her that way. Has to be another fluke, if not a clothes one.

"Where's Faith?"

He sets the plates down with a shrug. "She's usually out during the day. Recon while it's light, then we hit any trouble spots before sunset. Usually back by midnight."

"Sounds cozy." She fiddles with her eggs, not meeting his gaze. "So you guys are a team?"

The laugh comes out more bitter than intended. "I like to think of us as The Defiant Ones. Handcuffed together by destiny."

"You weren't on a chain gang. Nobody was holding you prisoner."

He swallows and looks away. "That's not what it felt like."

"So you just ran away again?" That quiet anger is enough to singe his brows at ten paces. "Both of you? God, Xander. We've been so worried --" She chokes it back, and he's expecting a punch in the arm.

"Why?"

Or that.

"Because everyone kept _looking_ at us. Like you're doing right now." He looks back, her anger and grief a blatant challenge. "Hell, you _know_ it's me and you can barely even sit next to me. Remember the last time I tried to hug you? Do you have any idea, the look on your face --"

That very face darkens, and he's thinking that arm punch is long overdue when Faith walks in, bringing their argument or whatever it is to a screeching halt. Not surprising Willow looks shocked at his body's appearance; full beard, shaggy hair past his shoulders, flannel and jeans only adding to the Grizzly Adams effect.

"Hey." The Slayer sounds anything but surprised, tosses him a brown paper bag. "Got some of those plastic knives we were lookin' at. Pretty wicked."

"Think we'll get to try 'em out tonight?" Xander's already itching for action to take his mind off the approaching train wreck. His body flops gracelessly into the beanbag chair with a scowl.

"Guess that's up to Red here." Faith leans back, arms behind her head with a calculated stare. "I mean, that *is* the deal, right? Here to shepherd us lost little lambs back to Buffyland?"

Willow's eyes crackle, without a hint of black.

"Wesley's been helping us research, and we think we have a shot. It involves supplication to Ptah, and I'm not gonna bore you with details, but --" Her resolve falters, for the merest second. "But you have to come back."

"To the uncomfortableness that is you all." He looks over to find Faith returning his stare. He's gotten better at reading her, but she'll never be an open book, no matter what skin she wears. "Well?"

"You're askin' _me_?" She laughs softly, shakes her head. "Don't think you get any say, or what?"

"I asked you first."

"Oh, right." She sits up in the beanbag, his eyes inexorably drawn to the single one staring back. "Try again, Harris."

"What do you want me to say? That I hate having binocular vision again? I'm dying to give up the superpowers that suddenly make me slightly relevant? To have my own genitals back after all the things you've done to me with them?"

Willow stiffens beside him, and he can't go on. Faith stands up, one hand in a fist.

"What do I _want_ you to say?" He hardly recognizes his own voice, low and ragged-edged. "That it's not gonna be the end, if we get this shit sorted out. That you'll quit runnin' away from me."

It's like looking in a mirror.

"That you'll start givin' a damn about _you_."

For the first time, he realizes it's the same for her.

[Prickle-Prickle, 6th Discord, YOLD 3172](http://yoyo.cc.monash.edu.au/~acb/norton/)

**


End file.
